The Travels of a Surgeon Extraordinaire
by Samsonic1991
Summary: This is my background story for Dr. Steinman. R&R! Rated for some violence and perversion. I've corrected the dates and stuff, thanks to EpicTails for pointing that out! Sadly, some chapters are rushed and I apologize for that. CHAPTER 8 IS UP!
1. Chapter 1: Sunny Side Up Eggs and Bacon

Disclaimer: I don't own Bioshock.

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_New York, 1945…_

Dr. J. S. Steinman removed his surgical mask and smiled with pride at the satisfaction of a job well done. Facing him now was the reconstructed face of a young woman, a face which had once been covered in hideous, pus-filled boils and festering scabs. All of her life, men would stare at her sores; other women would point and snicker; little children would run in fear. She had no friends, no fiancés, and no familiar faces. Alone, she would cry herself to sleep at night, the salty tears streaming into her scabs and burning her mercilessly. She came to Dr. Steinman's office, tears in her eyes, and spilled her entire story to the young doctor, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to complete her sentences. The good doctor had put his arm around her and reassured her: "we'll do everything in our power to help."

Her name was Carolyn Monroe, but Steinman knew her as "Patient 21-7-12-25B." Not that he called her by this name, of course; to him she was a patient, not a medical sample. Nonetheless, names confused him unless the actual person was in front of him, so Steinman simply gave numbers to his patients when he created files for them or penciled them in for appointments. It tore at his heartstrings, but he had to throw out his emotions sometimes. The medical profession, he had been taught, was supposed to be objective and scientific, not subjective and personal. Numbers were the only logical way of keeping the science in his otherwise personal interest in benefiting his patients. Sighing, he lit up a cigarette and put away his scalpel, tucking it gently into the drawer of his surgical cabinet. He loved that scalpel, that life-changing knife which glistened in the light of his office. It was his pride and joy.

The young woman groaned loudly as she awoke from her deep slumber, rubbing her eyes gently as she leaned upright. "How do I look, Dr. Steinman?" she asked meekly. The good doctor looked at her and smiled. The hopeful twinkle in her eyes was exactly what Steinman loved about his job: the satisfaction of knowing that his work brought joy to other people. He reached into his cabinet and pulled out a mirror covered in dust.

"Ms. Monroe, when you came to me today, you were covered in scabs and sores, as well as pimples which developed when you touched the scars," Steinman said matter-of-factly as he polished the mirror. "Well, I think that the days of picking endlessly are over for you, Ms. Monroe. I think that your life from now on will be far different from what it has been. Say hello, please, to the new you." He handed her the mirror and beamed with pride as she slowly lifted it to her face. He knew that patients loved to make a drama out of this sort of thing, so slow lifting of mirrors was common in his office.

Carolyn's hand slowly moved up to touch the face in the mirror. It was _her_ hand on _her_ face! She could not believe it: the sores and scabs were gone, as though they had never been there. All of the pus had been emptied out of her face, leaving clear and smooth skin. And her cheeks, once rough like sandpaper, were now gentle and soft. A tear rolled down her cheek, and for once, there was no burning. "Oh, _thank you_, Dr. Steinman!" she cried. She put down the mirror and hugged the doctor tightly. Steinman pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and blew the smoke into the air of his operating room.

"Ms. Monroe, today is the first day of the rest of your life," he said with a smile. He wiped her tears away and turned away from her momentarily. He scribbled down her price on a piece of paper and signed it "Dr. J. S. Steinman, surgeon extraordinaire." Next to it, he wrote down his new number code for her: "2-5-1-21-20-25W." Turning around, he handed her the piece of paper and smiled. "Take good care of yourself," he said. Carolyn nodded and briskly walked out the door, ready to face the day with her new face.

Steinman sat down in his chair and smoked his cigarette, filing through the stacks of paperwork on his desk. There were potential clients to be examined, records to be assessed, and methods to be researched. He crushed the cigarette butt inside the ashtray and tossed the ashes into the trash bin. Scanning the paper, he couldn't help feeling somewhat bored. A fast and eager reader, Steinman was always able to get the general gist of documents by reading particular words, names and descriptions, which saved him the trouble of being totally thorough. He picked up his pencil and wrote in various dates for each client, being extremely careful about days and times so as not to cluster patients together in the waiting room.

Suddenly, something came crashing through the window of Steinman's office, just several inches behind him. It fell to the ground with a deafening thud, creating an impact in the floor next to the operating table. Steinman picked up the item and examined it: a solid brick. Attached was a note, which came as no surprise to Steinman. Sighing, he untied the note and opened it:

"Cease and desist thy wicked acts! God's work is not to be tampered with by the hands of mortals! The face is as God intends it to be! Cease thy actions!"

Steinman chuckled and shook his head. These letters were common, and the bricks even more so. He had now grown so accustomed to these religious fanatics that he would be surprised on days where bricks _didn't_ come flying through the hospital windows. He put the note in his cabinet, tossed the brick into the garbage bin, and sat back down at his desk.

Charles Lentworth, Steinman's assistant and longtime friend, walked into the room, having heard the crash outside the hall. Lentworth took a puff from his cigarette and tossed it out the broken window, staring at Steinman. "Another one?" he asked with amusement. Steinman smiled and nodded. "Steinman, aren't you afraid that something might happen to you if you don't do something about these idiots? They're not backing down, you know, and they're almost spoiling for a fight. It's only a matter of time before this kind of thing leads to something worse."

Steinman pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, coughing slightly as he thought about what Lentworth was saying. True, these kinds of incidents could lead to unpredictable events of more devastating violence. But in the end, the reward of giving someone the life they wanted seemed to outweigh his own personal fear of death. "Charlie, I don't care if they threaten me. I will keep providing surgery for my patients. And I will not call the authorities. They have every right to stand out there and harangue people about how they're 'violating God's will' or whatever they're so into saying we're doing." He flicked the ashes into the trash bin and went back to sorting through his paperwork.

"Where are you going on your lunch break?" Lentworth asked, leaning up against the wall and looking around the room. It was so bright and clean in contrast to his own. Everything was in its proper place: the picture frames were totally straight, the equipment was filed neatly, and there were no clumps of hair or drops of blood on the operating table. Lentworth was the most unorganized doctor in the entire hospital, and he occasionally broke some of the rules by prescribing natural remedies for patients rather than synthetic ones, but the administration kept him there because he was a very professional doctor. Steinman, on the other hand, was obsessively neat and adhered to every rule in the book, even where it wasn't necessary.

The good doctor looked up at Lentworth. "I'm just going to go to the diner across the street," he said. "Want to join me?" Lentworth nodded and walked out of the room. Steinman sighed and started annotating his paperwork. The red ink seemed to come to life on the pages as he wrote down important bits of information, as well as designating numbers to individual clients. Next to the picture of each patient, he wrote down a different number code. On the profile of one young woman, Steinman ran through one particular sentence: "patient wants her face reshaped into a 'work of art'." He shook his head and wrote underneath those words: "surgery, not sculpting."

_An hour later…_

Steinman sipped his coffee calmly and browsed his menu, waiting for Lentworth to show up. It was five past noon, so he figured that he'd be showing up soon. The diner was pretty empty now, so he had been able to get a booth for himself and his friend. He sipped his coffee again and thought about how he wanted his eggs.

"Hey there, surgeon extraordinaire," came Lentworth's voice. Steinman grinned and looked at his friend. Lentworth was roughly five-foot-seven and sported a good-looking crew cut. His eyes were like green orbs floating in white seas, and his teeth were perfectly bright in spite of his constant smoking. A waiter came over and handed Lentworth a menu. The two men looked over their choices, and then placed their menus on the table.

"So Steinman, your patient seemed rather happy with her operation," Lentworth noted.

"Carolyn, Charlie. Her name is Carolyn. She has a name, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. But you know how the hospital works: a subject is a subject, not a human being, etcetera, etcetera." Steinman nodded and remained silent. That was the hospital's mentality: patients were merely subjects, labeled with numbers and conditions to differentiate them. Names seemed completely foreign to the world of professional medicine. Nevertheless, he hated giving people numbers like that; it was so disturbing to him.

"Hello gentlemen," said the waiter. "What will you be having today?"

"I'll have two eggs, sunny-side-up, with bacon," Steinman said. Lentworth ordered an omelet and coffee. The waiter smiled and walked to the counter, ripping the paper out of his pad and placing it on the rack, waiting for the chefs to get around to it.

"So Charlie," Steinman said, "how did Mrs. Aldridge's operation go?"

"Oh, it went fine," Lentworth said. "She was very nervous about it at first, but I reassured her that there was nothing to be afraid of regarding it." Lentworth was a part time OB/GYN; in fact, he was one of the most requested abortion providers in New York. The Christian protestors who demonstrated outside the hospital mainly targeted him, referring to him as a "baby-killer" and calling him "Satan's Physician." Despite the zeal of these protestors, Lentworth continued to provide abortions, remaining unconcerned with what the moralistic crusaders said about him.

"I'm guessing the recent violence hasn't stopped you?" Steinman asked somewhat amusingly. He sipped his coffee and lit up a cigarette.

"No, not really," Lentworth said. He was fully committed to his line of work, though he didn't talk too much about it. Most of his family members were evangelical Christians, so if they knew that he was an abortion provider, he would never hear the end of it. Heck, he might never even hear from them again at all! And besides, he wasn't interested in talking so much about himself. "So Steinman, your patient seemed to like her new face. She wished me a good day as she was heading out the door."

"It was something she'd always wanted: to be beautiful." Steinman looked down at the table and moved his finger in a circular motion on the tabletop. It was true: she had come into his office actually demanding that he make her beautiful, and those were her words. As a result, he had to spend much of his time advising his patients about the possible risks of surgery, which was often pointless since they didn't listen anyway. Yes, surgery was the de facto path to beauty, but _should_ it be? Shouldn't people be comfortable with their looks? It felt great to help people out, yet it crushed Steinman's spirit when people came in asking for a new appearance.

The waiter placed the food in front of the two men, smiling and telling them to enjoy their meals. Steinman looked down at the plate and picked up his fork. The two eggs were laid next to each other, and strips of bacon were laid underneath them, both ends arched up pointing at the eggs. Steinman picked up his knife and cut away at the white parts and stuffing them into his mouth. He occasionally poked at the yolk and put the pieces into his mouth. His favorite part was the bacon, which he would often devour before completely eating the eggs.

The two men sat in the diner and ate their food, discussing the interesting aspects of their jobs and the fascinating parts of their day.


	2. Chapter 2: Symmetrical and Beautiful

_One year later (1946)…_

It was approximately nine 'o clock, and Steinman was nearly home and couldn't wait to drink his lonely sorrows away. Alone, loveless and lifeless, every day was a constant battle to just get out of bed. Well, at least his job kept him occupied. Besides, he could always hire a hooker. It was the simplest thing, he thought: a fuck for a buck. It was far better than actually committing to a relationship in his view. It didn't matter much that the hookers left afterwards and never made actual conversation; they were only there to fuck him.

Standing now at the door to his apartment, Steinman reached into his pocket and fished for his keys, irked at how they sometimes seemed to be lost. He pulled the keys out and slid the main one into the lock, pushing it open. Slamming it shut, he moved over to examine his mailbox. Usually there wasn't much beyond checks and bills, so he never expected much. He led a lonely life, and that was fine with him. As he emptied his mailbox, he noticed that he was now holding a red and yellow envelope with an interesting design of a globe on it. It bore his name and address, so it wasn't someone else's. Curious, Steinman opened the envelope and withdrew the letter. Stamped on its underside was a red "R." He unfolded the letter and read it:

"Dear Dr. Steinman:

"My name is Andrew Ryan, and I would like to ask you a question: do you enjoy your surgical career? Is it what you live for every day when you arrive in your office? I would assume so, because some of your patients have told me that you are the greatest professional they have ever had, and the state of New York even lists you as a 'surgeon extraordinaire.'

"It's also come to my attention, Dr. Steinman, that you are the victim of religious dogmatists who prowl around your hospital like parasites, browsing around and trying to prevent individuals from getting their surgeries. They claim, no doubt, that the face is as 'God' intends for it to be, that you are morally wrong for surgically operating on these individuals at their behest. Well my friend, you are not in the wrong for your actions. You are merely following what you feel to be your calling. You, Dr. Steinman, refuse to give in to the demands of a few parasites. Yet despite your stronger will, the authorities in Washington have moved to restrict surgical access by telling people to believe in their 'inner beauty' and that hideous on the outside does not mean hideous on 'the inside.' You have, however, operated against those lies.

"I am therefore inviting you to leave the surface, the land, the parasite-infested shores, and come with me and others to a place where there are no parasites. A place where the moralist cannot control the visionary. A place where the censor cannot own the artist. A place where the government cannot rape the worker.

"I would like to invite you to…RAPTURE.

"Men like you and I, Dr. Steinman, should not be constrained by the artificial boundaries of 'right' and 'wrong' as dictated by society, but rather those we dictate for ourselves. Since when did we agree to let the government tell us what is right and what is wrong? Never! I have never given any such entity my permission, and neither have you! The parasite lives through the government, as the government through the parasite. To destroy one, you must destroy both.

"I extend again my invitation to journey with me to Rapture, my underwater city…**our** underwater city: every man and woman who travels to the city shall be an owner of Rapture! I will grant you some time to think it through. Travelers will be departing on the dates listed below.

"Hopefully I will have the honor of meeting the great Dr. J. S. Steinman, the man who crafts art out of ugly with a few meager tools, at the docks of New York City tomorrow evening.

"Sincerely, Andrew Ryan."

Steinman looked at the letter in shock. He had heard of Andrew Ryan, one of the wealthiest men in the country. A famed industrialist who was despised by the liberal press and celebrated by the conservative movement, he preached self-reliance and individual liberty as the ultimate goals in life for true men. Steinman admired Ryan for his candid honesty and independence from the tyranny of conventional thinking, so just holding this invitation seemed like a great honor to him. However, was he really ready to abandon his relatively comfortable life in New York City for a city under the ocean of all places? He slid the letter into his pocket and climbed up the stairs to his apartment.

Stepping onto the third floor, Steinman continued to think about the promises made in the letter: a place where he could be free from objection? A place where a man could change his life in any manner he saw fit? It seemed like a remarkably wonderful place to him, but it was so far under the ocean. He would have to look for another job if he wanted to stay there! Opening the door to his apartment, Steinman slammed the door shut and put the mail down. It was a long day, and now he just wanted to relax. He lit up a cigarette and flicked the ashes into the trash bin. Opening the refrigerator, he noticed that the light was starting to dim._ Time to get a new one_,he thought. Steinman searched the fridge for a bottle of beer, finally placing his hand on a cold bottle. He pulled it out and pried the top off, being careful not to let the foam spill onto his hand. He clutched the bottle and took a huge swig, swallowing nearly half the bottle. Already he was feeling somewhat lightheaded, so he drank the rest and reached for three more bottles. Drinking away all his troubles and drowning himself in alcohol instead of anxiety.

As he finished up his fourth bottle of beer, Steinman's legs were almost sprawled out on the floor, coming dangerously close to pulling him to the floor yet propping him just into the chair. The room was spinning, his eyes were glazed over, and his head was light as air. As he pushed down on the table and struggled to stand up, he almost tripped over his own toes. There was no doubt about it: Steinman was drunk. Not that he wasn't trying to get drunk, of course. Stumbling around the room, he bumped into the doorway of his bedroom and giggled as he stared out the window, watching all the cars go by. The shrill sound of a car horn trumpeting in the distance seemed much closer than it actually was. The moonlight sliced through the light of the streetlamp, reflecting off of the bed and onto his face. Steinman stumbled further, placing his feet in front of one another in the most dangerous manner possible, and fell onto the cold, soft mattress with a thud. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

_The next day…_

Steinman strolled into his office, his head slightly pained from his hangover. It was a splitting headache, one which seemed like a fracture of his skull, but he didn't mind. This was what ibuprofen was for, after all. He had taken two pills before leaving the house, so the headache should dissipate in a few minutes or so.

As he stepped into his office, he noticed that the second window of his office had been broken. Laying on the floor was another brick, and attached to it another note. It irked Steinman that these protestors would not go away and leave the patients in peace, but it was so satisfying to see his detractors make absolute fools of themselves like that. He picked up the note and opened it:

"The day of thine judgment is at hand! God doth not take kindly to those who would disobey His will!"

Steinman ripped the note up and leaned out the window. Several protestors stared straight back up at him, shaking their fists and screaming incomprehensibly at him. He shook his head and tossed the brick into the trash bin, lighting a cigarette and patiently waiting for the day to start as it usually would: patients would come in, doctors would perform their work, and the cycle would continue for several hours, after which the hospital would close and the employees would return home and awaken the next morning to the same cycle.

Suddenly, Steinman heard a cry emerge from outside his window, followed by louder and angrier voices. "No! Get back! Get away!" the first voice cried out. It was a female voice, so she was in some sort of trouble.

The protestors, apparently, would not have any of it. They angrily roared out at her, emitting from her even more screams of terror and fright as they performed whatever actions they were doing. Steinman ran to the window and looked, but all he saw were the protestors hovering over the woman, and then two men tossing her aside. Her green dress was tattered, and some sort of box was beside her. Steinman went back into his office and sat down, feeling certain that someone would take care of the situation. He smoked his cigarette and listened as the crowd died down. And then, it began again.

Angry voices roared from the streets, followed by various high pitched voices screaming for mercy. It was now almost an onslaught out there.

"Attention staff," the robotic voice blared over the intercom. "Physical harassment is taking place outside the building. This is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill!" Steinman bolted up and ran out the door into the lobby. Already doctors were bringing people inside on stretchers, hurrying to the emergency wards. Steinman looked around, confused, alone, and frightened. The doctors ran past him with people covered by sheets on the stretchers.

Just then, he spotted something that shook him. Two doctors were wheeling in a stretcher with a woman on it, whose hair was split evenly and dangling from the sides of the stretcher. It was a familiar blonde shade, one Steinman had seen before. He stood in front of the doctors and blocked them. "Wait! Let me see this woman!" The doctors obliged, stepping aside. Steinman slowly reached for the sheet and grabbed it with both hands, taking his time to roll it down. Then, he jumped back and recoiled in horror.

There, on the stretcher, in her green dress, was Carolyn Monroe. She had several deep gashes on her face, her head was split open, and scars outlined her mouth. Steinman dropped to his knees and took her hand.

"Carolyn," he gasped. "Oh my god…what happened?"

"S-S-Steinman," she breathed, weakening slowly. "T-t-those people…they h-hurt me." A single tear slid down her cheek, burning inside the cuts. She screamed as loud as she could, and Steinman gripped her hand tightly. "Dr. S-Steinman…" she gasped.

"Yes, Carolyn?"

"P-please…make m-m-me b-beautiful again…please…." And with that, her body went numb. Steinman placed his fingers on her wrist to check her pulse. Nothing. She was dead.

Steinman stared at the floor, a tear forming in his eye. All of the work her had done on her face…and those bastards had ruined it! But there was something else that made his blood boil, something which made the personal aspect seem remarkably small: they had ruined the life of a young woman who had only received a life just one year ago. Through their desire to convert and take other people under their religion, they had ruined a young woman's life forever. Steinman clenched his fists and stood up.

"Dr. Steinman, we need to take this body away," said one of the doctors.

"No…leave her with me," Steinman said. "I was very close with her. I need some time alone." He took the stretcher and silently wheeled it into his office. Taking her body and placing onto the operating table, he noticed just how heavy she was. He sat down and stared at her body, broken, destroyed, scarred. And there was nothing he could do. His head began pounding rapidly, sweat pouring down his face. He gritted his teeth and gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned completely white. Rage was all he now knew.

Steinman reached into his drawer and pulled out a pistol. It was meant only in cases of an attack on his physical being, but he was so blinded by rage that he no longer cared about his own safety. He loaded the cartridge and held the gun tightly in his hand, contemplating the scarred, bloodied face he was looking at. Her face practically cried out: "Avenge me, Steinman!" He stood up to go out the door, and then realized that he needed to truly avenge Carolyn in a manner she should see. Her eyes needed to be on him when he paid the rioters their retribution. He walked over to his operating cabinet and reached into the lower drawer, searching around for a hacksaw. However, he remembered that such items were not used in his field of surgery. In the heat of the moment, Steinman remembered his scalpel.

He reached into the top drawer and pulled out the scalpel, shimmering in all its glory. He looked at Carolyn and gripped her right shoulder. Standing above the young woman's body, he gripped the scalpel tightly and drove it into her neck. Blood oozed onto the operating table and collected into a pool, dripping down to the floor. Steinman ripped the scalpel through the bone, putting further pressure on the metallic instrument as he fought back his tears. The bone cracked slightly as he tightened his grip on her shoulder, ripping progressively with every second. Finally, the entire bone snapped, and the head fell to the ground with a thud. Steinman picked it up by the hair and looked into the scarred eyes.

"I will avenge you."

He stormed out the door, speeding towards the entrance with the head in his hand. Doctors walking down the hall were pushed aside. All eyes were now on Steinman as he kicked open the door to the hospital entrance.

"Look what you've done to her!" Steinman shrieked, holding up the decapitated head. Then he pulled out his pistol and fired into the crowd. Loud gunshots echoed through the streets; the crowd dispersed and fled the bullets. Carolyn's head shook violently in his hand from the blowback of the gun, rocking back and forth towards the crowd. One man turned to run and was shot, a bullet tearing through his head. The brains splattered out onto the pavement, as his blood oozed out of the head quickly. People ran screaming into the street, running toward their homes and their cars, leaving Steinman standing on the steps of the hospital with Carolyn Mornoe's head in his hands.

The blood of the murdered man now oozed onto the box which Carolyn had been carrying to the hospital. Curious to see what it was, Steinman stepped over the bloodied body and moved towards it. As he bent down to pick up the wrapping, he noticed that shards of glass stuck out of the paper. He moved the wrapping back and stared blankly at the contents of the box. There was a large picture of his face, with Carolyn's signature written on the bottom right corner, and a card in the frame. The glass was cracked where his forehead met, and the corners had already been chipped away. Steinman lifted the card out of the frame and read it:

"Dear Dr. Steinman,

"Thank you so much for the surgery! You've really changed my life! Thanks to you, my face is symmetrical and beautiful! I've actually made friends and been in several relationships since the surgery! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

"Sincerely, Carolyn."

Steinman put the card in his pocket and picked up the picture, admiring its beautiful craftsmanship. A tear rolled down his cheek as he smiled at the words: "my face is symmetrical and beautiful."

_Later…_

Steinman sat in his apartment, Carolyn Monroe's head sitting on his bedpost. She was once so beautiful, so perfect. He had fallen in love with her when he had finished the surgery, and wanted to tell her so. Now, he would never get that opportunity. He swigged down a bottle of beer and held his head in his hands. The phone rang, screaming into his ears: "KIIIIIILLER! KIIIIIILLER!" Instead of picking it up, however, he let the answering machine pick it up.

"Steinman, it's Charlie. I'm really sorry about your patient. Please, come in tomorrow so we can talk more about this. Your conduct was really fucked up, no joke. Please, please, come to the hospital tomorrow and face the music. Good night."

Steinman shivered and looked out the window at the sun fading on the distant horizon. He needed to get out of here, and damned fast. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the letter from Andrew Ryan and read the departure schedule. There was a sub departing to "Rapture" in one hour.

Should he stay, or should he go? Steinman leaned back and thought about it. Then he looked at the head of Carolyn Monroe, and realized that people like her would never be safe if irrational zealots could terrorize them. He stood up and looked out the window again, toward the New York City Harbor. It was official: he had to leave.

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Sorry this one is sort of rushed, I really wanted to get to the end of it. READ AND REVIEW, IT'S NOT FINISHED!!!!


	3. Chapter 3: Descent

Steinman stood at the docks with his briefcases and his medical equipment. It was half past midnight, and a submarine was set to depart in fifteen minutes. Yet as far as he could see, there were no submarines here. Several other people sat nearby, chatting away with one another or reading their newspapers. Some were smoking, some were sighing, and some were snoring. Steinman, however, simply stared into space. After what he had, after mutilating Carolyn Monroe's dead body and shooting that protestor at the hospital, he could not go back to his New York City life. But this was his only hope; had he and these other people been duped by some viscous prankster who knew every aspect of their lives? The water lapped against the concrete walls, shooting droplets into the air and back into the water as he continued to look at nothing in particular.

Suddenly, two large submarines emerged from the depths, one unmistakably plated with gold and another made from iron. Both subs opened up, and out of the golden one stepped a middle aged man with a diamond plated cane and striped suit. Steinman's jaw dropped when he recognized the man: it was Andrew Ryan, in all his glory. He twirled his cane and smiled, moving towards the people sitting on the benches.

"Greetings, fellow visionaries," he thundered. "I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm so glad you all decided to come with me. We will be traveling away from the parasites of these lands, away from the clutches of big government. Once we board these submarines, we will be traveling to a newer, more radical place. A place I began on my own, and which all of us can together build: Rapture. It is a work in progress, and it isn't just me building this beautiful city. All of you will be contributing something to Rapture, I just know it. Please, step inside the submarine on your left and enjoy your ride." Steinman gathered his suitcases and lined up behind everyone else. Ryan stood at the front of the line, looking at a list, then greeting people and becoming more acquainted with them. Steinman turned his head and looked back at the city, a place he had known since birth. He would miss New York, but it was for the best.

"Sir, please board the submarine," came Ryan's somewhat distant voice. Steinman snapped back to attention and looked at the submarine. He picked up his belongings and walked toward it. Ryan extended his hand and smiled. "Hello, friend. And your name is?" Steinman shook Ryan's extended hand firmly.

"Steinman, J. S. Steinman." Ryan looked up from his list and glanced at him.

"_The_ J. S. Steinman?" he asked. Steinman nodded his head. Ryan's face lit up instantly. He grabbed the doctor's hand and shook it again warmly. "Dr. Steinman, it's a thrill to meet you. Please, come with me. This submarine is not suited to men such as ourselves." He bent down and closed the hatchet to the iron submarine. The two men watched as it sank beneath the ocean, then stared at each other again.

"Alright, Dr. Steinman," Ryan said. "You can come with me in my own personal submarine." Steinman looked at the golden submarine in shock: Andrew Ryan was inviting him onto this, his personal submarine. He nodded and hurried over to the vessel, tossing his suitcases inside. They climbed inside, sealed the hatchet, and sat across from one another. Ryan smiled and pulled out a large cigar. Steinman had never seen one quite like Ryan's: it was finely packed, extended from the tip of the middle finger to the wrist, and had a logo in the center. Ryan struck a match and lit it, pulling on the flame as he inhaled. Soon the entire thing was burning, a small trail of smoke rising from the end. Steinman pulled out a cigarette and lit it, pulling on the flame from his own match. The submarine was descending down into the ocean; the windows of the submarine were instantly surrounded by sea water.

"So, Dr. Steinman, you got my letter, I see," Ryan said somewhat awkwardly. Steinman smiled and nodded sheepishly. "It was sort of surprising, Mr. Ryan, to get a letter from a man such as yourself." Ryan smiled and raised his hand.

"Please, call me Andrew." Steinman nodded and took a drag off his cigarette. Ryan's cigar was burning quite slowly, having burnt away perhaps one-sixteenth of the entire thing. Steinman's cigarette, on the other hand, had burnt away one-fifth already. Sighing, he took another quick drag and exhaled the smoke.

"Dr. Steinman, I know the parasites on the surface are looking for you. I assure you that you may seek refuge in my city," Ryan said. Steinman looked up at the wealthy businessman with some confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, I know what you did the previous day." Steinman stared in shock, frightened that this wealthy man knew he was a murderer. It was still so nerve wracking for him that the image of Carolyn's decapitated head was ingrained in his mind forever.

"Believe me, Dr. Steinman: you're not a murderer," Ryan said as he took a long drag off his cigar. "You are not psychotic, nor are you a criminal. On the contrary, you are a _hero_. You, sir, exemplify what the parasite hates and fears: a free-thinking man who is not afraid of the consequences for defending what you believe in. You did not kill a man, Dr. Steinman. You crushed a parasite who thought he could end your life's work.

"A murderer is a paradise who plans out his modus operandi and then executes it strategically. You did not plan this out in advance; it happened in the spur of the moment. A psychotic is a parasite who derives sadistic pleasure from taking another life. Judging from the look on your face, you are drowning in guilt. And a criminal is a parasite who steals from a man to satisfy his own petty needs, someone who prefers instant gratification instead of actually working. You worked hard, Dr. Steinman, pursuing your own goals in spite of what those religious fanatics said. And they took the life of your patient! They are insecure with themselves and do not want others to be granted the privilege of personal pride. And they took an innocent life!

"Please, do not doubt yourself over what you have done. You did exactly what you thought was right. You embody the human spirit, something which cannot be broken or restrained." Ryan took a drag off his cigar and exhaled the smoke. It was now down to its last fifteenth, so he just tossed it in the ashtray. Steinman looked down at his hands and thought about what he had just heard. Ryan was right: there was no time for self-doubt and self-hatred. There was only time for self-searching and self-improvement. He stood up and looked out the window of the submarine. Schools of fish swam by quickly; sharks moved through the sea at fluctuating speeds; crabs and sting rays scoured the ocean floor. He crushed the cigarette in the ash tray next to him and looked again at the older man.

"Andrew," he said, "you're right. There's no time for me to beat myself up over this. I should be proud of myself for exacting revenge upon the man who took my patient's life. Oh, poor woman!" He placed his hand upon his heart and sat back down. A tear formed in his eye, but suddenly dissipated before it could roll down his cheek. Ryan cocked his head and frowned, watching silently as Steinman continued to beat himself up. It reminded him of how he was indoctrinated at the schools in Russia, how he was taught to concern himself with others and not his own wellbeing. This was exactly how the parasites worked: they break your confidence, then your humanity, then your spirit. A fire burned in his eyes as he watched the doctor sigh repeatedly like there was nothing he had left to live for. However, he had to let it go. There was no time for horrid memories of the past; there was only time for the present and the future. Ryan's philosophy was that a man who dwells on the past ruins the present and cannot survive the future. He walked over and put his hand on Steinman's shoulder.

"Dr. Steinman, you mustn't blame yourself for Carolyn Monroe's death," Ryan said softly. "It was not your fault for operating on her; it is the fault of those religious parasites who sought to cow you into submission. You merely fought back in defense, and yet the parasite media has labeled you a terrorist and a criminal. You have given a great gift to the world, something which came of your own self-interest in studying the field of surgery." Steinman looked at Ryan and smiled. The older man patted the doctor on the back and stood up. "Say, would you like something to drink?"

"Sure," Steinman answered somewhat confused. He didn't understand this: alcohol was illegal in the United States! Ryan opened up a cabinet and pulled out two glasses and a beautiful looking bottle of alcohol with an odd logo on it. "Dr. Steinman, this is called Arcadia Merlot. It is one of the greatest wines you will ever drink…if drinking were legal in the United States." He popped open the bottle and pour himself a glass, then Steinman. The two men cheered and drank. The scorching alcohol was somewhat bitter to Steinman; it burned his throat and seemed to dissolve his innards, but it tasted sweet at the same time.

"Mr. Ryan," came a high pitched voice over the intercom, "we are docking into Rapture." Ryan stood up and extended his hand. Steinman grabbed it and stood up, eager to see this new place. The sub came to a complete stop, ascended upwards just a little bit, and then stopped again. Ryan grabbed the doctor's suitcases and opened the shaft. He climbed out and put down the suitcases. Steinman then ascended the ladder slowly, wanting to savor it. Each rung of the ladder was a little rusty, but it didn't matter. As he reached the top, he heard Ryan's voice: "Welcome, friends, to…Rapture!"

Steinman stuck his head out of the submarine and looked around him in awe. He was in a glass building, which overlooked a city below. Schools of fish and sharks swam by; multicolored lights adorned the city; all of it was absolutely beautiful. Steinman was shocked and amazed by it all. For the first time in his life, he truly felt like he was at home.

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PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!


	4. Chapter 4: A New Home

_Later, in the lobby of Rapture Elite Condominiums…_

Steinman stood in the lobby of the large building, his mouth agape in awe at the beautiful paintings which adorned the walls, surrounded by schools of fish which glided through the water outside. People sat in the lobby smoking and chatting away, laughing and bickering away.

"Sir, do you need help?" asked a nasally, high pitched voice. Steinman turned to the voice and saw a young woman in a green vest and black pants. She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and she had no pimples, blemishes or scars. Her blonde hair was parted evenly and draped over her shoulders. The nametag on her vest said "Jane Smith." She smiled at Steinman, exposing her perfectly white teeth.

"Yes," said Steinman. "My name is J. S. Steinman, and Andrew Ryan has reserved a room for me here." He looked at his feet somewhat sheepishly, hoping that he didn't sound stupid. She was a very beautiful woman indeed. She smiled and withdrew a sheet of paper from her pocket. Scanning it for a few minutes, her blue eyes seemed to poke holes in the paper. Finally she looked up at him and smiled again. "Ah yes, Steinman. Please, put your bags on the conveyor belt and get your key from the bellboy." Steinman nodded and placed his items on the nearby conveyor belt, then took his key and waited for the elevator. According to his key, his apartment was on the fifteenth floor, a sort of honor since it overlooked a large amount of the city. Waiting for the elevator, Steinman didn't notice the middle aged man who had suddenly appeared next to him. The man was about Steinman's height, maybe a little taller. He wore a gray striped suit, a blue tie, and a brown fedora. He looked at Steinman's key and smiled.

"Fifteenth floor, eh?" the old man asked.

"Yes," Steinman said. He noticed that the man had a thick Scottish accent, deep and noticeable. The man extended his hand toward Steinman and smiled warmly.

"The name's Eric Ferguson. I live on that floor."

"J. S. Steinman." He took Ferguson's hand and shook it firmly.

"So what's a lad like you doin' in an aquarium like this? You got an invitation from Ryan I assume?" Steinman nodded. "The man himself! You musta been a really professional doctor on the surface if you got an invite from a guy like that." Steinman looked at the floor and blushed. What a compliment! The doors to the elevator opened and both men stepped inside it. Steinman pressed the button to the fifteenth floor and watched as the doors closed. The elevator began its climb up, signaling its passage of each floor every two minutes.

"So doctor, I'm just gonna cut to the chase," Ferguson said. "On the surface I was a pharmacist. We got put outta business by these damned unruly wee ones who have nothin' betta ta do than ruin someone else's life. But you seem like a nice young lad, so I'm gonna make you an offer you can't refuse. There's somethin' down here in this place, somethin' that everybody wants. Everybody who comes here starts wantin' this bloody stuff eventually, so I'm just gonna show you what it is." He pulled a small veil of red liquid out of his pocket and held it up to Steinman.

"What is it?" Steinman asked.

"This stuff is called ADAM. It's fantastic stuff, it's bloody amazin'. Really makes the days go by. It works miracles. What's your area of work, doctor?"

"I'm a plastic surgeon."

"Perfect. This stuff will get your head outta your arse and make performin' surgery so much easier for you. Heck, it can help you perform the best operations you could possibly ask for." Steinman looked at the veil skeptically. Something marketed as being this strong surely must be exaggerated. Nothing could be that great. On the other hand, Ferguson seemed like a decent fellow. Steinman smiled and looked at the Irishman. "How do I know that you're not just saying that to sell it to me?"

"Why doctor, I'm insulted. I'd never tell a lie to a lad like you! Well, if you don't wanna try it, then that's your loss." He started to slip the veil into his pocket, when suddenly Steinman grabbed his arm. "Wait. How do you know how great this stuff is?"

"Lad, if I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be sellin' this stuff to ya right now, would I? I use this stuff once a month, and it really changes ya. Makes ya appreciate life more than you already do. In fact, just to prove I'm not rippin' ya off, have this samply for free, lad." He handed the veil to Steinman just as the elevator reached the fifteenth floor. "Perfect timin'." They stepped out of the elevator and went their separate ways. As Steinman opened the door to his apartment, he looked again at the veil. "Hey Eric!" he called out.

"Yeah doctor?"

"How do you take this stuff?"

"Just drink it outta the veil." Ferguson smiled and closed the door to his apartment. Steinman looked at the veil and thought about it. Was he really going to drink this stuff? He didn't even know Ferguson, and yet he had trusted him enough to buy this stuff from him. Sighing, he opened the veil and swallowed the whole thing. Nothing. He furrowed his brow and opened the door. He had been ripped off. Sighing again, he stepped into the apartment and closed the door. His bags were already there. The apartment was beautiful. The windows were crystal clear and looked out on the city and into the ocean. Everything was absolutely amazing.

Suddenly, a flash cut through the air. Steinman blinked. What just happened? He blinked several times, and suddenly noticed that everything looked sharper, shapelier, fuller, finer. Everything was much more noticeable now; colors seemed to stand out so much more. His head pounded rapidly; his heart began beating excitedly. He grabbed the wall and stumbled across the room, unaware that he was even moving. It felt as though his innards were being ripped apart, but for some reason he didn't care. He tripped and fell onto the bed, writhing in pain yet feeling nothing that should merit such reaction. His back arched, his toes curled, and his eyes widened. Everything in his body was being rewritten, reworked, and rewired.

Then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. The pain was over. Steinman bolted up and looked at his hands. They looked totally normal, yet they seemed so soft, so beautiful, so smooth. Those hands…they were absolutely beautiful. And the room…it was so bright!

Suddenly, the phone rang, like a melody to his ears. It seemed so far away right now, but then again his arms seemed so long. He reached for the phone and picked it up.

"He-he-hello?"

"Dr. Steinman? This is Andrew Ryan. How are you?"

"Oh, he-hello sir. I'm f-fine."

"Great! Listen, before we brought you here, we had already built a medical pavilion as a hospital. You were the one person we needed to complete our surgical ward, and so now we have officially formed the surgical staff. However, we're still in the process of hiring potential doctors and medical workers, so for a few months you will need to have a temporary job to hold yourself up. When we open up the pavilion, we would be honored if you would give a speech to commemorate its opening."

"I d-don't think I'll n-n-need to write a speech, sir. I l-like to m-make up what I'm s-s-saying when I s-speak in public."

"Perfect. And hey, are you alright? Your voice sounds a little shaky."

"I'm fine, just a l-little c-c-cold is a-all."

"Alright. Well, take a nice hot bath and go to sleep. You need to be up and early tomorrow to search for your new job!" The phone clicked, and Steinman put it back on the receiver. He stood up and stumbled over to the bathroom. He was feeling slightly better, although he was still a little woozy. Turning on the faucet, he noticed how beautiful the water was as it emptied into the tub, how solid, clear and silky it looked. He undressed himself carefully, making sure to fold his clothes and place them on the toilet. He sported a gorgeous six pack and stunning biceps, and extremely ripped leg muscles. He spent hours in the gym every day when he lived in New York, and he must have slept with nearly half the women in the city. He stepped into the tub, feeling the hot water sting his freezing feet. Then he slowly sat down and felt the stinging sensation of the water as it covered every inch of his body. He was tired, cold, frightened…but at home.

He dunked his head under the water and shut his eyes. Images of Carolyn flashed through his mind. She was so beautiful, so innocent, so...so...

Steinman gulped for air. He was suddenly overcome by panic. He felt as though he was sinking in the ocean. He shot his head up out of the water and leapt out the tub. A huge puddle amassed on the floor as he ran over to his bags. He had brought a large medical bag with him, and he needed what was inside it. He unzipped the bag and pulled out the heavy object inside it: Carolyn's head.

It was still preserved, although scarred and bloody. Steinman looked at the head and frowned. _All this patient needs_, he thought, _is a nice cleaning and sculpting, and she'll be fine_. He held the head under his arm and got back into the tub. His body had now become accustomed to the water's heat, so it didn't sting as badly anymore. Sighing, Steinman took the soap and began to wash the head. The blood washed away in the water, and suddenly the soft white skin seemed to glow in the bright light. He held Carolyn's face to his own, looking into those deep, dead eyes. They were so beautiful. He closed his eyes and put his mouth on the lips, passionately moving his tongue into...

He spat. For God's sake, this was a decapitated head! He stared at it in shock. Had he really been this transfixed by her beauty? It was so surreal: he had her love only in her death! Was he really going to do such a sick and disgusting thing to this _head_?!

Yes.

Steinman put his lips to the mouth and kissed passionately, meaningfully, knowingly, lovingly.

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Sorry it's sort of rushed, I wanted to get to the end of this chapter. REVIEW PLEASE!!!


	5. Chapter 5: Beautifully Average

_February, 1947, noon…_

Steinman sat up in his bed and stared out the window of his luxurious condo. The ocean was so beautiful, so magnificent, during the daytime. Bubbles shot up past the glass, stopping for a brief second to shift right and then shot back up again; fish pressed their faces to the clear glass, shining in the morning light. Everything seemed so beautiful. Steinman stood up and stretched, an appropriate set of grunts to welcome another regular day. Sighing, he went over to his dresser and picked out his clothing for the day. It seemed like this had become an every-day routine since he got the job at the local bar.

For several months he had been working at the Dionysus Tavern & Grill, a jazzy little club several blocks away from the condos. It was a place where all of the youth in Rapture came to party on their free time. Of course, the tavern was off limits to those under twenty-one, and everyone still had to pay for admission and their meals, but it was still for them. Steinman himself was a bartender, something which he absolutely hated doing. He had to neglect his medical skills and surgical career, and for what? Because some already drunken bastard needed his fix again. But, on the bright side, at least he could slip outside every now and then for an ADAM-and-cigarette break. Everyone used the stuff apparently, because his coworkers would often bring packets of it for their own use as well. Just as he slipped out of his pants to go take a shower, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Steinman? It's Andrew."

"Oh, hi Mr. Ryan. Lovely to hear from you again sir."

"Yes, yes. Listen, we've just finished hiring the rest of the hospital staff. The Medical Pavilion is now fully operational."

Steinman's heart stopped for a brief second. "Sir?"

"We're holding a celebration to commemorate the opening of the pavilion in one hour. Are you still going to speak at the ceremony?"

"Of course, Mr. Ryan! I'll do my best to win everyone in that audience over."

"I hope so, Steinman. I hope so." With that, the phone clicked. Steinman placed it back on the hook and looked in the mirror. He no longer saw just his reflection; he saw a big, bold, sexy champion who had just fought the world and won. Now was his time to shine, his time to move forward. He looked at Carolyn's head, which he had placed atop the television. The flesh was starting to rot, and the scabs were so badly infected that they were surrounded by festering skin and crusty pus. The lips were dry and cracked, and dry blood ran from her nose onto the top lip, almost giving her bloody red lipstick.

Steinman smiled and blew it a kiss. "Look at what I've done, Carolyn. I'm still in business. I've avenged you…_us_!" He strutted into the bathroom and turned on the shower, feeling the water to make sure it was hot enough. Then he grabbed the rotting head and took it into the shower with him, scrubbing it and washing furiously as though such a thing was supposed to totally stop the infection from spreading. As the water soaked Steinman, he held Carolyn's head up to his face.

She was so beautiful. So beautiful. So beautiful. So…

He didn't realize that he had now moved the head down between his legs and slid his hardened member into the mouth. Now he was pulling the head out and pushing in, pulling out and pushing in, trying to satisfy himself. It felt so good, but he wasn't getting anything out of this. No matter how much pressure he applied, nothing was working. Frustrated, he tried moving it fast, then faster, then as fast as he possibly could. All to no avail. There was no satisfaction to be found.

"God damn it!" He slammed his fist against the tiles, creating a slight hole in the bathroom wall. Not even in her death could he have the pleasure of her warmth. But at least he could enjoy the beauty in her eyes.

_An hour later at the Rapture Medical Pavilion…_

Steinman opened the door to the foyer of the Pavilion and stared in awe. It was such a big place! There were so many people packed in here, just chattering away, laughing, smoking, drinking. This _was_ paradise! Suddenly, he spotted Andrew Ryan, chatting with a beautifully average looking blonde girl. She must have been in her twenties, but then again she could have been in her early to mid thirties. With a face like hers, one could pass for beautiful in the mind of the average person. "Mr. Ryan!" he shouted.

Ryan looked in his direction and smiled back. He kissed the young girl on the left cheek, said something to her, then walked over to Steinman. "Mister Surgeon Extraordinaire! It's wonderful you could make it. Where have you been working these past few months?"

"Dionysus."

"Really? It's a wonderful place isn't it? Come, you must meet some of our distinguished guests!" Ryan put his arm around Steinman's shoulder and led him around the room, introducing him to some people he had never seen. They were all so average looking, so unappealingly bland. Their mechanical smiles, their robotic gestures, their dull faces. He didn't care. But he had to pretend, so he just smiled and shook hands with old ladies, young ladies, old fellows, young fellows.

Luckily for him, Ryan's watch started beeping.

"Ah! It's time for the opening! Are you ready, Dr. Steinman?"

Steinman looked at Ryan and nodded. "Ready as ever, Mr. Ryan!" Ryan smiled and walked up the stairs above the foyer. This spot looked out on the crowd, so it wasn't a surprise that there was a podium there with microphones and speakers. The rich businessman cleared his throat and spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please be silent." The whole room suddenly became less noisy. All eyes were now on Ryan. "Today is a great day for Rapture. The creation of the Medical Pavilion has finally become reality. Here in Rapture, our healthcare system will be based on self-reliance and free market capitalism, so that you may receive top quality care from top quality professionals. All of the staff we've hired have been examined for their credentials, and we have picked the most qualified individuals. Here with us today is one of the _most_ qualified individuals, a plastic surgeon from New York City. He has repaired faces and lives, and has the ability to mold the human face into any work of art. Please welcome…Dr. J. S. Steinman." The audience applauded. Steinman walked up the steps and waved back at the crowd, smiling with pride that he had just been mentioned publicly by Andrew Ryan as "one of the _most_ qualified individuals." He hugged Ryan and moved over to the stand. After a while, the cheering died down and was replaced with resounding silence.

Steinman cleared his throat, tapped the microphone three times, and then began to speak.


	6. Chapter 6: A Beautiful, Healthy Populace

It is truly an honor to be giving the commencement address here at the opening of the Rapture Medical Pavilion. I can assure everyone in this audience that the staff we have hired will be of the greatest possible assistance from now on.

I have only been in Rapture for a few months now, and quite frankly I'm already enjoying myself. But then again, who wouldn't enjoy this place, this paradise of the human spirit? Everyone in this audience and on this stage is here because of their own personal ambitions, their own personal goals. Rapture was built for people like us; it is our paradise.

On the surface, I worked as a plastic surgeon, crafting beauty out of ugly. My scalpel and my vision were my tools; my patients were my primary drive. Those who stepped into my operating room sought better lives, looks and luck. I, although I didn't realize it at the time, sought to show off my talent. For the doctor, it is an effective team: our patients come in with a problem, and we work with them to find the solution. We work hand in hand while simultaneously pursuing our own interests. I pursued the expansion of my career, and my patients pursued an enhancement of their lives.

Despite our adherence to human instinct and nature, our respect for the instinctive needs of our patients to desire beauty over what they had, we were frowned upon with disgust by fanatical religious parasites who claimed that we were interfering with the work of their god. Whatever way the face was structured, they said, was how god willed it to be. To interfere with his work was to commit the unforgivable sin of defiance, of pride. It was a sin to think that our puny medical tools, they said, could disrupt god, even though they did do a pretty good job of transforming ugly into beauty. Every day that we arrived at the hospital was another day that we risked being harassed by these dimwitted parasites. These hideous leeches protested our work under the misguided belief that they could stop us if they just refused to shut their mouths, but how wrong they were!

But they did manage to drive me away from the surface.

After the slaughter of one of my most beautiful patients, I committed the unthinkable for a man of my prescribed ethical standards: I eliminated one of these parasites. Shot him clean in the head. Afraid, confused, and alone, I fled here to Rapture. I wanted to be surrounded by people like myself, and today I can say that I feel safely at home.

Men like Andrew Ryan come along once in a lifetime; they are the pioneers of human progress. Andrew Ryan is a catalyst for change in this, our decaying world. He is a visionary, a revolutionary, a hero and a brave man. This city is predicated on the realization that the modern world is the creation of bold, imaginative people who lit the path of progress with the lanterns of liberty. The greatest inventors and thinkers have always been those who have pursued their own interests, not those who deliberately invented and thought for the sake of the parasite. A real man does not think for others, but for himself. He is independent and reliant upon his own mind to process his own thoughts. The parasite, on the other hand, expects others to live for him.

The parasite lives his life through the professional. The lifeline of the parasite is easily traced to its inevitable host: the government, the church, the charity. There is no such thing as an independent parasite, because the parasite does not comprehend self-reliance. He knows only one thing: how to mooch off of others. How to swindle money from the rest of us by claiming that our common humanity automatically binds us to one another.

A parasite is not a human being.

A parasite is not a man.

A parasite is not a worthy foe.

The parasite is an impediment to progress. He defiles art; he disrupts science; he destroys spirits. Parasites are the most dangerous of human beings.

Let us remember that we are responsible only to ourselves, not to others. We are brothers and sisters solely by virtue of our united vision: a world without parasites. Aside from our common vision, we are divided along the lines of our merits. Some of us are doctors, some of us are teachers, some of us are workers, some of us are executives. Our varied backgrounds are indicative of our radical differences, the intimate details which differentiate us from one another as individual human beings. Without those distinctions, without those small differences to distinguish us as unique individuals instead of unimportant components in the makeup of the machine known as life, you and I are nothing.

A wise old playwright once remarked, "What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god!" Those words are the bloodline of Rapture; they are a reminder of our individual greatness and our collective potential. Shakespeare did not realize how prophetic, how profound, how perceptive, that beautiful quote would be. That is Rapture in a nutshell: it is not _groups_, but _individuals_, who move the world.

Nearly two centuries ago, a group of brilliant men declared their nation's independence from British colonial rule. They understood that colonialism was driven by altruism, by parasitism, by the mechanics of big government, all of which conspired to overwhelm their nation. They drafted the official manifesto to which that nation was to adhere. That manifesto glorified the principles of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." They were, in effect, glorifying self-reliance, freedom and personal prosperity.

As time went on, that nation became corrupted by the evils of altruism. Under the fraudulent FDR administration, America abandoned the ideas of individualism to embrace the principles of patronage. The United States of America, the new base of altruism, has become a center for parasites. Every day that vile nation breeds a new generation of parasites, vermin who are taught to think of their neighbor. And yet, there are some who reject such answers and search vigorously for the truth. Those exceptional people are welcome to come to Rapture, to pursue their own interests and to live long and free.

In the United States, we would be forced to give care to those in need, regardless of their ability to pay. Is there any bigger scam than this? A parasite can walk into the hospital and ask for free health care! They can cost the hospital money without any regard for their despicable actions!

But this, the Rapture Medical Pavilion, is not a home for parasites. Those who can pay will receive the appropriate medical attention. Those who cannot pay will be turned away. It's that simple. We are a self-sustaining people, self-reliant and self-improving. As long as you work, you will be healed, altered, revived, restructured.

The task bestowed upon medical professionals is a great one indeed: to save or enhance the quality of life for people seeking our help. We are honored and humbled to accept these tasks, but we are also confident in our abilities, for modesty and uncertainty cannot lead to good results. A plastic surgeon who lacks confidence will always mutilate the patient, rather than fixing them. A dentist who doubts his own education will always destroy the teeth, rather than cleaning them. Death is always the result of an untrained and uncertain worker; perfection and health are the results of a highly trained and confident staff.

The staff is trained; the pavilion is finished. All of the energy which flows through Rapture originates here, with the health and beauty of our citizens. Health and beauty are the central concepts upon which Rapture itself was founded. A beautiful populace is a healthy populace. And soon, our populace will become the healthiest on the planet, as long as this medical pavilion is functioning.

Thank you.

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Steinman stared out at the audience. For a minute, there was absolute silence. No one said a word. Not even a cough or sneeze. _Oh no_, Steinman thought. _I've lost them_. Just as he finished processing that thought, however, the audience rose up in thunderous applause. Stunned, he took a bow and smiled. They _loved_ him! They really loved him!

Ryan walked over to Steinman and placed his hand on his shoulder. "Cut the ribbon, Steinman." He handed the doctor a pair of scissors and smiled at him. Steinman looked at the scissors and turned to the ribbon. He slowly brought his fingers down, taking his time to admire his impressive work. The middle of the scissors touched the ribbon, then gently sliced through the red tape. Both ends fluttered to the ground amid a long, loud applause. Cameras flashed; voices rose; emotions flowed. Rapture's Medical Pavilion was open at last.


	7. Chapter 7: The Artist and the Sculptor

_Later…_

Steinman poured himself another glass of Arcadia Merlot and sat down in a chair, sitting back and watching the average people as they carried on with their average lives. Nothing really fazed him at this point, and really these people bored him. With their bland faces and disinterested smiles, their dull eyes and shapely noses…wasn't there one among them who _was_ beautiful!?

A young man sporting a fantastic moustache sat down next to him and sipped on a glass filled with a green liquid. The glass emitted a strange smell, a blend of licorice and alcohol. The man was roughly Steinman's height, and wore a black suit over a white vest. The pin on his suit was a bloody red rose. Or maybe it _was_ blood; there were some noticeable stains on it. Either way, Steinman could see that this man was actually somewhat interesting in this sea of boredom. They were seated next to each other, drinking their beverages and watching as the people in attendance chatted amiably, dancing wildly, smoking romantically.

"Dr. Steinman, I presume?" the man asked, pulling the glass away from his lips. His face was caked in white makeup, so his dark eyes seemed to pierce Steinman's soul. They were just so damn…frightening.

"Yes." Steinman pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The silver smoke seemed to penetrate the air around him. "And you are?"

"Ah, how rude of me! You are new to this wonderful place, this **fucking** stronghold of art, as Ryan calls it. I am the arm of art, the bearer of beauty, the cherub of charm. I…am Sander Cohen." The man smiled and bowed his head, as if he had just recited the greatest poem the world had ever heard. His confidence, Steinman could see, was beyond that of the typical artist. He admired that sort of thing.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," the doctor said, shaking the gloved hand warmly. He took a drag off of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke. That was the first time this evening he had said that to someone and actually meant it: he _was_ pleased to meet someone this fascinating and this incredible. Everyone else was just so fake and plain. Cohen leaned back in his chair and sipped out of the glass, tilting it slightly to the right.

"I've heard you can work wonders on the face," Cohen said somewhat cautiously.

"Well, I don't want to brag, but I _have_ been called a surgeon extraordinaire," Steinman said sheepishly. He smiled and looked down at his feet. It wasn't like he wanted to boast, but sometimes he had to confirm what people had heard. Cohen grinned and reached into his jacket, then pulled out a small veil filled with a blue glowing liquid. Steinman recognized it immediately. "ADAM," he said softly. It was such a beautiful sample, glowing radiantly inside the little veil like a magnificent little candle.

"Yes," Cohen said. He opened the bottle and took a shot, drinking about half of it. He held it in front of Steinman and smiled. "Your turn." Steinman took the veil and looked at it intensely. Then he put it to his lips and swallowed what little was left inside. The room began spinning wildly like a roulette wheel. Everyone was floating, almost gliding, across the room, blissfully unaware of their _repugnant hideousness_. A man wearing a bunny mask walked by, the mask almost popping out at Steinman. Everything was so beautiful, so magnificent, so…

"You know doctor, I'm a lover of beauty myself," Cohen said distantly.

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm an artist. Striving to create the perfect masterpiece, the most incredible thing man will ever lay his eyes upon. And you…you shall be my associate in my quest to create that beauty."

"Me? Of what assistance could I possibly be? I just retouch people's faces!"

"Wrong, Dr. Steinman. You do more than just retouch faces. When you hold that scalpel in your hands, you become nature's master, her tamer. You realize, doctor, that beauty is something for which we must all strive. As you work, you make the most important observations for which beauty is essential. Symmetry, tucks, peels…you do it all! You, my dear friend, have made man into an art form! A walking Picasso! A breathing Da Vinci!"

Steinman leaned back in his chair and thought about this for a second. He _was_ an artist, a sculptor, a visionary. The scalpel was not merely a knife, but also a brush, a chisel, a tool, something with which he could craft beauty out of that which was hideous. It was his calling, his destiny, to make people beautiful. Then he realized that Sander Cohen was just the man he'd been looking for. Here was a man who was not afraid to challenge conventional wisdom. Here was a man who wasn't afraid to assert his feelings on what constituted beauty. Here was a man who cared not what others thought of him. He stood up and motioned for Cohen to follow him. Cohen stood up and followed Steinman through the crowd, past the hustle and bustle which had been crammed into this room.

Steinman opened the door at the end of the hall and held it for Cohen. The artist entered and watched as the door closed behind him. They were in the bathroom, a small and well-furnished place in this large foyer. Everything smelled so fresh and flowery; it wasn't like the bathrooms on the surface.

"Mr. Cohen, I need your help with a patient," Steinman said as he dug into his pocket. He pulled out a photograph and showed it to Cohen. ADAM coursed through their veins as they stared at the picture diligently.

It was a picture of Carolyn Monroe's head. One of the eyes had fallen out, leaving an empty socket which seemed to suck in the air around it. The upper lip had been almost totally ripped apart, and hung limply like a line of saliva. Dry blood had formed a crust on the outside of the mouth, and one of the cheeks had been ripped into a wide hole. The nose was rotting away, wrinkled and crusty. The whole thing was a filthy, disgusting, bloody wreck.

But not the way Steinman and Cohen saw it.

To them, she was absolutely beautiful. Her hair glowed in the light, and her lips looked luscious and ripe. Her eyes were like seas of white, with beautiful orbs of blue just floating peacefully in the middle. Her skin was soft and smooth, like sheets of silk. She was the most beautiful woman they had ever laid their eyes on.

Cohen took the photo and held it closer. A tear formed in his eye, wiping away some of the makeup. She reminded him so much of…her…

There was no time for that. He looked at Steinman and smiled. "My dear Dr. Steinman, I think I know a way to bring back this beautiful woman. All we need is the patient in question, a little ADAM…and a humble volunteer."


	8. Chapter 8: Stitches of Love

Steinman clutched the large medical handbag, walking slowly through the dark halls of Fort Frolic. The cry of a large marine animal, possibly a whale, roared through the windows. With each step, Steinman swore he could hear someone breathing in sync with his motions. Was he crazy? Was he just imagining things? Maybe it was this ADAM stuff he was using…NO! NO! ADAM was the life's blood of Rapture, of Ryan, of Sander Cohen, of…Steinman himself. It was essential to the survival of the entire city! It was capable of no wrong, only of glorious right. He had to get these crazy notions out of his head; it wasn't the fault of ADAM, just his difficulty in coping with a new place. Yeah, that's all it was! It's a new place!

As he rounded the corner, Steinman felt a powerful blow against his chest. He fell to the ground with a heavy thud, knocking the handbag out of his arms. "Sorry, mister!" a shrill voice echoed. He turned to see a young woman racing toward the Bathysphere. She wore a dirty pair of black knickers, a low-cut blouse, and flat heeled shoes. Her hair was long, blonde and wavy, lapping against her shoulders with each stride. As she ran, her footsteps echoed through the halls, her breathing became loud and fast.

Suddenly, a second figure wearing a rabbit mask rounded the corner, racing past Steinman toward the young woman. "Get back here, little bunny!" The man wore no pants or shoes, just socks and a black tuxedo top. He stopped abruptly, then pulled something out of his jacket. It was a gun, sleek and silver in the lights of the hallway. The man aimed his gun at the young lady. "Last chance, little rabbit!" he screamed. She kept running. The man positioned himself steadily and pulled the trigger. The shot roared through the chambers, cutting short the cry of a distant whale. For a second, the woman continued to run, then suddenly stopped. She stood still briefly, like a beautifully accurate statue. Then, she fell to the ground like a deck of cards.

The man with the gun stood up and chuckled. He walked to the Bathysphere and picked up the body, carrying it briskly. "Dr. Steinman!" the man called out. As he came closer and closer, Steinman saw that the half naked man was Sander Cohen. He wore a nervous grin, his eyes peering into Steinman's soul. Steinman looked at the lone artist and didn't know what to think. On one hand, it was really weird to see this, but then again everything happened for a reason, right? Cohen's member was semi-hard and covered in semen. The dead woman hung limply over his broad shoulders. He extended his hand to Dr. Steinman and motioned for him to stand up. Steinman took Cohen's hand, grabbed his handbag, and stood up. "Mr. Cohen," he said with a smile. The two men shook hands and began walking through the halls, rounding the corner that Steinman was curious about.

"So, Dr. Steinman," Cohen said softly. "Are you enjoying your visit here in Rapture?"

"It's a pretty marvelous place," Steinman said. "Where are we, anyway?"

"This is Fort Frolic. It's where artists like myself can relax and unwind. Ryan comes here every day, but he never **fucking** looks at my art!" A vein suddenly began pulsating upon Cohen's forehead.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Is that so? Are you an art lover?"

"Well…to be honest…"

"Ah! 'To be honest.' Just another way of saying, '**fuck no!**' I appreciate honesty, Dr. Steinman." Cohen put his arm around Steinman and led him over to a large metal door. It seemed as though it had a thousand locks on it, and yet there was no visible key hole. Cohen snapped his fingers and watched as the door slid up, screeching loudly and piercing the air. He smiled and motioned for Steinman to follow him.

"Welcome…to Fort Frolic!" Steinman stared in awe at the large room which now opened itself up to him. A staircase dominated the center of the room, as well as several corridors leading into smaller halls. At the foot of the staircase was a small stage, the curtains virtually soaked by water. Cohen placed the young woman's body on the ground and danced over to the stage, humming a tune familiar to Steinman. It was a beautiful operatic tune, something so familiar yet so unknown. He walked over to the body and looked at it; it was so…plain. Not much stood out to him except the long blonde hair. He put down the medical handbag and stooped down to take a closer look at the body.

"Well, Dr. Steinman?" Cohen asked, twiddling his fingers and tapping his feet. "What do you think?"

"It's a beautiful body," Steinman said softly, stroking the breasts. "But…what does this have to do with my Carolyn?" As he asked, he suddenly realized that the decrepit and hideous face had transformed into Carolyn's. Soft, white, beautiful skin. Luscious lips. Deep blue eyes. Absolutely beautiful. It was at that very moment that the solution became obvious to him. He knew what had to be done. Steinman reached into his handbag and pulled from it the decaying head of Carolyn Monroe and his kit of medical tools. He pulled out his prized scalpel and looked at Carolyn's beautiful face. "I'm sorry, honey." He drove the scalpel into the side of the head and tore through the skin, peeling it all away slowly. Blood oozed onto his clothes and the floor as he did the dirty work that needed to be done.

Cohen pulled up the curtain draped over the stage and reached under the floorboards. For a few minutes, he just rummaged around, looking for something. A rat scurried out from beneath the stage, holding a piece of plaster between its teeth. It jumped onto the stairs, doubled back and rushed towards the leftmost corridor. Neither man noticed it, though. They were too busy focusing on their individual tasks to be concerned with trivial matters like rodents under a stage.

Steinman's scalpel tore through the crusty flesh on Carolyn's face, exposing the hard white bone beneath. Blood dribbled onto his gloved hands; sweat oozed down his throbbing forehead. The stale face peeled away from the rest of the head, a sagging piece of flesh encrusted with blood. Steinman smiled as he examined the beautiful face, slowly gliding into the light above him. It was beautifully hideous, and hideously beautiful. Suddenly, the scalpel jerked forward a little bit, indicating just what he had been waiting for: an end to this grisly task. The head fell to the ground, leaving a bloody imprint on the floor. Steinman held the face in his hand, examining its smiling beauty in the lighting of the large room. It seemed to radiate back at him, penetrating his soul with an indescribable beauty. He looked back at the beautiful body on the floor next to him and reached into his medical kit. Rummaging around for a minute, he thought about how his life had been on the surface. What had he left behind? Just some old friends, bounded to their profession by petty morality. They had always been more concerned with ideas of petty and insolent morality, to which science would always take the backseat. And yet whenever their professional lives depended upon it, science was moved up right next to their moral chirping. Oh, how he hated them! Sighing, Steinman pulled out a small black box and took off the cover. Inside the box was a long set of string and some pins. He placed the face over the head of the body and shoved the needle into the face and the head. Slowly, with careful precision, he began to stitch, pulling the needle out and sliding it gently back in. The thread weaved through delicately, like a worm in the dirt.

"How's it coming along, doctor?" Cohen asked as he pulled a large piece of wood out from under the stage.

"It's coming along," Steinman replied softly. "Trust me, it's coming along."


End file.
